Laughing in Leather
by Arsenic Allure
Summary: That jacket looks amazing.' Scott blinked. Rogue grinned.


Disclaimer: Marvel earns their credit. This is theirs, scene manipulation is mine.

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**Laughing in Leather**

He hadn't slept well. The Scott Summers persona had been wrestled into place at five in the morning instead of seven. He had shaved at three, donned his red shirt and black pants at four and had reorganised his teaching material – class notes, books, pens, rulers, scribbles crying for help – exactly thirteen and a quarter times when the digital clock wailed his alarm for six-thirty. He pounced on it, stood and decided that he needed to iron his shirt again.

After finding his leather jacket and donning the armour, he sat on his side of the double bed and took out his notes. Scott read the same sentence twenty-five times, lost in memories on a loop: Crashing water, the hum of the ship in the background, his cry of 'J-'

_No._

A bell rang and he jumped. The clock said eight-twenty. Scott shot it a classic double take, snatched up his class material and almost bolted from the room.

The corridors were filled with children, laughing and falling silent with his approach. The memories fired through his head, assassinating rational thought. He set his jaw and did not look at the children staring after him. Scott kept his eyes straight ahead, aware that his posture was stiff, his hands were clenched and he was powerless to rid himself of the distress signals. His gaze was blood.

Once, he thought he heard his name and turned a useless revolution, unable to find the source. It was lost in the noise of the boisterous students rushing to class and he had to shrug it away when Ororo swam into his gaze. He stared at her head on, trying desperately to ignore the look of heavy pity in her gaze. 'The kids are waiting for you, Scott,' she said, much too cheerily. 'They've been studying classic plays.' She smiled. 'Ready for Senior English?'

_No._ 'Yes,' he said, nodding. Her mouth set, then opened. She was about to say something he couldn't bare to hear. 'I've got it.' He held his head high and walked through the classroom door.

Thirty pairs of eyes locked on him and he instantly felt like a target board had been painted on his head, its taunting red spot screaming attention. Leaving his jacket on, he bravely stared back. A few dropped their gazes, guilty, awkward and ignorant. The room was too quiet, because there was none of the usual ruckus and not one practical joke, he noted as he finally put his material down. The thud was an avalanche.

Scott swallowed. 'Right. I hear you've been working on classic plays while I've been, er…,' he swallowed again, 'absent.' He wished they would stop acting as if he would explode. He wished they would stop staring. 'So?'

They remained staring. No one raised their hand, yelled or called out. The target was so far tattering to shreds from multiple bullseyes, despite the fact that no one had thrown a book and he had not been abused because he caught them passing notes. Behind the desk, he was gripping the top of the short chair so hard his hands were brimming with pins and needles.

_Act normal,_ he begged them silently, ducking his head to stare at his white knuckles. _Please..._

_Scott…_

His head shot up and he swept the room. Rogue held her hand in the air as if she had heard his thoughts and he thanked the gods, vowing to give her an A. Scott nodded toward her, his tongue in knots from pressure, and strangled a laugh of relief when every eye turned toward her, the blessed distraction.

'_The Crucible_,' she said, 'by Arthur Miller. We're watchin' the movie since we've read tah play.'

He smiled tightly in appreciation toward her. 'Thank you, Rogue.' Scott bent down further to search the desk and frowned when it was not in an obvious place.

'Bottom drawer, Mr. Summers.'

Scott raised an eyebrow as he looked up at her, still hunched over the desk. '_Thank _you, Rogue.'

She leaned back in her chair, grinned something wicked and mirrored his expression. 'Anytime, _Mr._ Summers.'

The whole exchange was bizarre.

He found the movie and put it in the player, handing the control to the nearest student. The class, almost reluctantly, reorganised themselves into a comfortable viewing arrangement. Scott used the commotion to his advantage to escape into the back, sitting at a desk near the window without their ceaseless gazes following his cowardly movements.

He heard the voice again but he remained uncertain. Was it a whisper or the scrape of the leather against the chair? Was it stress? The thought of any sort of telepathy or telekinesis made his head hurt and his reddened eyes sting. He knit his forehead in a frown.

When the bell rang suddenly for the end of the period, he knew he had been lost in his thoughts again. He nodded to passing students who looked his way – he was willing to wager all thirty – and sighed in relief when he was left alone. He slumped in the chair and closed his eyes, a hand resting on his forehead.

Footsteps alerted him to the presence of another and he ricocheted out of his chair, sending it crashing to the floor. He spun, a hand flying to the arms of his glasses, ready for a fight. Rogue halted just shy of two metres from him, eyes wide, leather-gloved hands gripping the case of _The Crucible_. He relaxed his hand and looked at the ground.

'Sorry,' he said, picking up the chair and placing it slowly under the desk.

'Not a problem,' Rogue replied. She held out the case and he took it, consciously refraining from touching her gloved fingers. He couldn't look at her. Rogue tucked a wayward piece of white hair back behind her ear.

She turned to leave but he, without conscious thought, grasped her arm near the elbow and blurted, 'You're not really ready to watch the play.'

'Nah,' she said, turning back. Scott dropped his hand and slid it in his pants pocket. 'Actually, we were gonna do a topic test.'

'Oh,' he said, quickly understanding why the seniors had been quiet. It was a classic: if the teacher does not know, he will not be told.

'Ah know what you're thinkin',' Rogue said suddenly.

He raised his eyebrows, daringly staring straight into her face. 'You do?' he said in a voice that made it clear she had no chance.

'Yeah. Tah looks're everywhere, least it seems that way tah you. They all got pity or fear in their eyes an' they're talkin' to you without gettin' to tah point, 'cause tah point's that you're hurt an' they don't want tah remind yah of it.' She shrugged. He loved the fact she was unable see his eyes flick away in guilt. 'Sometimes they really _are_ an' sometimes they're not. Feels like all you wanna do is yell at 'em to get to tah point an' stop lookin' at yah like you're 'bout to go boom.'

He picked through what she had said in the tense silence that followed. 'Needs time, huh?'

'Yup,' she said, smiling softly. 'Becomes less wrong an' more everyday, an' you start tah see things as they are, not how yah think they are. Yah stop feelin' so scrutinised.'

The bell rang again. 'You're going to be late for your next class.'

'An' you're gonna be late feh yours. Don't miss it.'

'Same to you.'

As she walked away, he shrugged and felt the leather collar brush against his chin, then looked out the window. But when he heard Rogue stop and twirl around he turned back to find her grin in place. He raised his eyebrows, daring her to try and use him as an excuse to get out of class. It almost felt normal.

'Hey, Mr. Summers?'

'Yes, Rogue?'

'That jacket looks amazing.'

Scott blinked.

Rogue just grinned and shook her head, jogging out the classroom door with her shoulder bag slapping against her hip. He followed her, stuck his head passed the next class filing in – Advanced Mathematics, also too quiet – and caught sight of her disappearing around the next corner.

He went back to his desk, dropped _The Crucible_ on the surface and shuffled through his notes. Mathematics was up to the slightly advanced stages of geometry and English... He paused. English did not have a test at all. He swallowed and turned toward the board, a marker in his hand.

He failed to focus on summarising the systematic nature of geometry. The conversation replayed in his head and Scott noticed details not overly subtle or important: Rogue had suffered a certain stigma when she showed how dangerous her power was. Rogue, wise from foreign memories and personalities, had orchestrated _The Crucible_ because she knew he was unstable and she knew how that felt. Rogue wore clothes abound as armour.

Rogue wore leather gloves and they looked amazing on her nimble fingers. He paused, pushed his glasses toward the bridge of his nose, and grinned something wicked.

_Thank you, Rogue. __And thank me because you're getting an A-plus._

**Fin.**

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_Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading._

_-AA-_


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